


Silent Partner

by stellamira1936



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft-centric, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:19:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4153302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamira1936/pseuds/stellamira1936
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little ficlet about brothers being brothers....and Mycoft being the smart one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Partner

This game is getting tedious.

Mycroft slowly, thoughtfully twirls the umbrella handle in his fingers, first this way, then that, keeping his eyes trained on it as if mesmerised by the shifting of sunlight and shadow on the craggy whanghee -- but in fact, he's watching his opponent carefully, peripheral vision honed through years of practice to be fully discerning and reliable. The pale eyes of the man seated opposite him are similarly engaged elsewhere, his hands similarly occupied in a seemingly idle amusement. 

The difference being, that Mycroft is patient. Incredibly patient, whilst Sherlock is not. Thus will age and treachery always triumph....

Sherlock sighs, fidgets, the corner of his mouth twitching minutely; signs that he's getting bored with his own obstinacy. Plucking the strings of the violin in his lap a few more times, Sherlock abruptly rises and tucks the instrument under his chin. He looks down at Mycroft as if noticing him there for the first time. 

"You still here? Shouldn't you be getting back to," he waves the bow around airily, "Whatever?"

Mycroft doesn't take his eyes away from the slowly revolving handle rotating between his slender fingers. "You haven't given me an answer yet."

"I have." Sherlock moves toward the window, bowing an open 'A' and adjusting the tuning a tooth-rattling fraction too flat; like Mycroft, he has perfect pitch, so it's obviously for the sole purpose of being annoying. Well, two can play at that.

"You could bring your soldier friend, if you like," Mycroft tells his umbrella with soft, vicious enthusiasm. "I know Mummy won't mind. In fact, I'm quite certain she would be delighted to officially meet your...pal." 

Sherlock is turned away, looking out the window so his face is hidden, but Mycroft doesn't need to see it. His brother's shoulders stiffen slightly under the folds of the silken dressing gown, there is a slight pause in the bowing. A hit! A very palpable hit. Sherlock sniffs, languidly reaches for the rosin, rubs it along the bow's bleached horsehair much harder than necessary, then tosses the leather-wrapped amber cake back into the open case on the floor.

"It's inconvenient." Sherlock snaps off a dangling broken horsehair and lets it drift down onto the carpet. "I'm working on a case."

"Unlikely," Mycroft scoffs. "Dr. Watson is away for the week, isn't he?" Reconciling his sister with her estranged wife was the kind of fool's errand John Watson couldn't resist. Naturally, the endeavour is doomed to failure: Harriet Watson's medical records indicated that she is even less stable than her brother. It's the sort of thing Mycroft makes it his business to know.

Sherlock bows savagely across two strings now, wrenching the peg on the 'D' so that it sharps just slightly above the 'A' in subtle, painful dissonance. A shadow of a grimace passes over his face, mingled with grim satisfaction.

We're very close to winning this one, Mycroft silently tells his umbrella. No need to press too hard, here. Victory is more important than vengeance, no matter the assault on one's ears. "Of course, you know Mummy respects your work, Sherlock. If you are working on a case, then that's that, isn't it?" Mycroft frowns a little at his umbrella, twitching his fingers to twirl it just a little faster.

"Yes," Sherlock replies vaguely, lowering the violin. He glances down and back, his eyes taking in the little set-piece of Mycroft, chair, umbrella; then lifts his instrument once more, tuning the next string with a slight smile. 

Mycroft chuckles inwardly. Tremendously convenient, being thought a nervous wreck. Maintaining his various 'tells' takes a bit of effort, more than he would have liked, but it paid handsomely to do so. As always, the umbrella proves an invaluable prop.

Of course, with Sherlock, there is the distinct possibility that Mycroft is wasting his time creating false tells. His brother's small, enigmatic smile could mean any number of things...

Sherlock pauses his scraping with the bow, glances sideways with a raised eyebrow. "Is she still after you to take that cabinet posting?" he asks carelessly.

Ah, the bait has indeed been taken. "Lord, yes," Mycroft groans. "I should never have mentioned it to her."

"Well, how could she resist wanting both of us to be famous?" Sherlock fairly smirks. "'My son, the obscure bureaucrat' hardly has an impressive ring to it."

"Fame and true power rarely go hand in hand." Mycroft allows himself a trace of superciliousness, and twirls his fingers a tiny bit faster, less smoothly. Sherlock's eyes flick down to take in the tightly-furled black umbrella spinning like a top, and his smirk grows wider.

"Did she see the latest? The Sunday Times piece?"

"I don't know, she hasn't mentioned it." In fact, Mummy had spoken of little else all week. Sherlock making the broadsheets! Imagine! 

A fleeting pout crosses Sherlock's lips. "It would have been hard to miss."

"I believe they were in Switzerland."

"The Times is online."

Mycroft shrugs eloquently; Sherlock looks pensive and bends his bow to mis-tuning the final string, then mercifully stops the torture in mid-scrape. "Who else is coming?"

Noting the phrasing of the question, Mycroft wriggles inwardly with the warm glow of victory."The usual suspects, I should imagine," he sighs. "Plus a few more for the special occasion. The Hoxleys, of course. Aunt Shirley and Uncle Rudy, if he promises to wear trousers. Those ghastly Americans, unfortunately..." 

"The Americans?" Now Sherlock grins gleefully, and Mycroft stops twirling the umbrella in favour of lightly tapping the ferrule against the carpet; signalling extreme distress will ensure that Sherlock won't want to miss anything. "The ones who insist on calling you 'Mike'?"

"The same," Mycroft observes dryly to his umbrella. "And it gets worse yet."

Sherlock sprawls down in his chair again, violin dangling carelessly from two fingers. "How so?"

This is painful, but Mycroft is used to ignoring pain. "Mummy seems to have gotten the notion from them that a casual nickname would do me good."

Sherlock's face threatens to split with the grin that lights up his pale eyes. "She calls you Mike as well? Does she?"

Mycroft doesn't deign to reply, except with a rueful raising of the eyebrows. There's no sound for a moment except the quiet, rhythmic thud of ferrule on carpet, then Mycroft hears Sherlock burst into peals of laughter.

"Oh! Oh! That is excellent! I wouldn't miss that for the world! Send your car for me, will you?" Still snorting laughter, Sherlock adds, "Mike."

Mycroft stills his hands, and finally raises his eyes from the umbrella to frown directly at Sherlock. "If you're going to be rude, you can take the train."

Sherlock doesn't reply, he just rises and tucks his violin under his chin once more, turning his back on his brother to look out the window. Mycroft rises from the chair, secure in his victory at last. 

"Half eleven tomorrow, then. And could you possibly manage to be ready on time?" 

Sherlock's only reply is to savagely saw out an enthusiastic rendition of "Happy Birthday to You!" on the excruciatingly mis-tuned violin.

Considering the better part of valour, Mycroft clutches his umbrella to him and flees. The cacophony fades behind him as he hurries down the shabby stairs to the front door, and the tune has stopped playing by the time he opens it. 

The light rain outside is unexpected but hardly surprising, and he is, as always, prepared for anything. The black canopy blooms obligingly above him, and, shielded from the gaze of passersby, Mycroft Holmes pauses for a moment on the steps of 221B to allow himself a moment to unabashedly gloat. 

"Well done, you. Well done," he smiles into the taut fabric, and it would be hard to say if he were addressing the umbrella, or himself.


End file.
